


The Same Changes

by remiges



Series: Slow Pony Home [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bloodplay, Consent Issues, Hate Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Situational Dubious Consent, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: About half of the teams display their idol, but Sid has always liked the Pens'. It's smooth granite, the body small enough to fit comfortably in his palm, and the figurine has three eyes and wobbly protrusions instead of arms.He doesn't touch it, of course. There's no use courting disaster.Or: Five times Sid had sex in the winner's room and one time he didn't.





	The Same Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Same Changes by The Weepies.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeAixPfYb1I)
> 
> I tried to follow the dates and results of the actual games pretty closely, but a couple of things got tweaked. If you're interested in the timeline, Nothing Else Will Do happens in March of 2016. 
> 
> See endnotes for additional (slightly spoilery) info re: consent issues.

**1: April 15, 2012**

Sid's first thought walking into the Flyer's winner's room, the loss still burning under his skin, is that he should have gotten a spotter. Giroux's already lounging on the bed, and he crooks a finger at Sid before the door is even closed behind him.

"Come here," Giroux says, and Sid goes because he doesn't have any other choice, not really.

Giroux undoes the tie on Sid's robe, and Sid has to steal himself as it falls open. It's nothing he hasn't seen before—any of the Flyers, really—but it's still humiliating. He looks him over and Sid twitches under his gaze, has to fight the urge to cover himself. Giroux's eyes are dark, and Sid keeps his breathing steady. He doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that Sid's rattled.

"Well?" Sid asks, baring his teeth at Giroux like he can intimidate him. "Can't get it up?" It's stupid to antagonize him, but the skin around Giroux's lips go tight as if Sid's scored a point, and the satisfaction rolls through him in a wave.

"Get on the bed, hands and knees," he says, and Sid drops the robe and complies.

Giroux's still wearing his, Sid sees when he looks over his shoulder, and he doesn't know why he doesn't just take it off. It's not like they've never seen each other naked before, and if he's going for some sort of head game where he's the only clothed one, it's not working. He'd be better off in something more substantial than a robe.

Giroux looms over him, the shadow he throws darkening the sheets near Sid's hand, and Sid tenses. He has a sudden surge of dread at the reminder that Giroux is the one in power here. Everyone's blood is up because of the playoffs, and the threat of violence looms ever-present in the back of his mind. There's no foreplay, which is par for the course with them, and the lube is cold when Giroux circles his entrance.

Sid can't stop his involuntary flinch.

"Relax," Giroux tells him, like Sid's some rookie who's never had more than a finger up his ass, who doesn't know exactly how to do this. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Sid bites his lip so he won't say anything back and provoke him into something, and Giroux works a finger in.

Sid stares at the sheet bunching under his hands. He pushes the tips of his fingers into the mattress, focuses on the slight give and tries to steady his breathing. He doesn't want Giroux to get impatient, doesn't want to know what will happen if the prep starts taking too long. He's done this time and time again, with Giroux multiple times, but he just can't get his muscles to unwind. The loss on the ice weighs on him, chews him up from the inside out.

At least he knows Giroux won't fuck him dry. Probably. And even if he does it without a lot of prep, maybe it won't be so bad, Sid thinks, grinding his teeth as Giroux adds another finger. Maybe the pain will help take him out of his head.

"This isn't working," Giroux says after a while, and Sid is so tense his entire body _aches_.

"Maybe we should switch," he grits out and feels Giroux snort against his neck.

"Not likely."

Giroux pulls on his shoulder until Sid flips over onto his back. He doesn't want to do this face-to-face, looking at Giroux's horrible hair and his stupid teeth. He glares at him through the addition of more lube and a third finger, through the condom getting rolled on, through Giroux pressing closer between his legs.

"There," he says, shuffling between Sid's knees, dick bobbing in front of him. "Better?"

He's right, Sid realizes. It had been better like that, something else to focus on instead of the frustration of losing or the humiliation of being laid out in front of his enemy, and Sid hates that Giroux was the one give that to him.

The head of Giroux's dick bumps against Sid's ass, and Sid tenses again.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Giroux says in what would be a reasonable tone of voice for anyone else, "but I am if you _don't relax_."

"Just do it," Sid snaps back. "You need an invitation?"

He grabs Giroux by the bicep, hard—and why is he still wearing his robe? He looks ridiculous like this—and Giroux's eyes go tight. He pushes in with one inexorable shove, doesn't stop till he's bottomed out and Sid is panting, fingers tightening against the terrycloth.

He pauses, but not long enough for Sid to adjust, and Sid's too stubborn to say anything to slow him down before he's pulling out again.

Sid can feel his sweat sticking the sheets to his back, and for all that Giroux was careful getting him prepped, now he's moving fast and hard. He wraps his hand around Sid's half-hard dick, and Sid knows he's been conditioned for this through years in the winner's room, but the pleasure that runs through him is unwanted. He doesn't want to be reduced to this, doesn't want to give Giroux anything he doesn't already have, but that's part of the sacrifice. What the gods want, the gods get.

Giroux's managing to nudge his prostate every so often, and the pleasure keeps lighting Sid up until he's fully hard. He tips his head back, tries to focus on the stucco ceiling, the way the soundproofing is starting to come apart at the edges of the room, but then Giroux tightens his grip, swipes his thumb over the head of Sid's dick, and he's coming.

Giroux doesn't stop fucking him as the aftershocks roll through Sid's body, just slows down so that Sid can feel every thrust, the way the head of Giroux's dick holds him open before he buries himself in Sid again.

Sid grits his teeth and waits for it to be over, but then Giroux says, "Come on," and pulls out.

Giroux maneuvers until he's on his back with Sid sitting on his dick, and as he does one of the sleeves of his robe rides up. Sid catches a glimpse of abraded skin, a red mark circling Giroux's wrist and overlapping a nasty bruise. He notices Sid looking, if the way he folds his arms behind his head is any indication, and Sid feels his lip curl at the thought that Giroux might try and blame this injury on him.

He almost says something, has his mouth open to poke at Giroux's defenses, but there's something dangerous in Giroux's eyes. Sid has never been one to back down, either on the ice or off of it, but this isn't about them right now. This is about sacrifice and the gods and winning. It's always about winning.

He lowers his gaze and lets Giroux keep his secrets.

"I'm tired," Giroux says after a moment. He smirks, and Sid hates him. "That hat trick and all."

"No stamina," Sid grits out. He shift experimentally, and this angle is much deeper, sending tendrils of electricity up his spine. He's flush with Giroux's pelvis, and the feeling of being full is almost heady. Sid can't get hard again so soon after coming, but the lack of urgency is almost nice.

Then Giroux smacks Sid's thigh and he jumps. "Anytime this year, Crosby."

Sid glares at him but he starts moving, the burn in his thighs from the game making him unsteady until he corrects himself. Giroux's got a yellowing bite mark on the inside of a hip, and Sid picks up the pace just so he can press into it harder as he rides him.

Giroux comes gratifyingly quickly, just as the overstimulation is starting to get to Sid.

"Like I said, no stamina," Sid says, smirking down at Giroux and the way he's biting his bottom lip with his face scrunched up. He cracks an eye, and then he flips them, a sweeping wave of movement that overbalances Sid and lands him on his back, the head of Giroux's softening dick still inside him.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Giroux says, and then he's got a hand on Sid. Sid twitches, a whole body flinch as Giroux plays with his cockhead. It's too soon to get hard again, and this feels more like pain than pleasure, like there's a twitchy current running through him.

"I—" can't, is what he was going to say, but they don't say no in this room, not unless they want the gods to come take everything away for defiance. Not unless they want misfortune to dog their heels on the ice—bad bounces and injuries and trades.

"I know," Giroux says, like he knows anything, like he knows what Sid's thinking. "But you're going to."

He holds Sid's thighs open, shoulders his way between them, and Sid stifles his whimper with the palm of his hand when Giroux presses his mouth against the inside of Sid's thigh and sucks a hickey there. He goes to hold Sid's wrists, then pulls abruptly away after a second and thumbs the insides of Sid's hips instead.

Leaning forward he starts suckling on the head of Sid's dick, tonguing the slit with vicious little stabs, and Sid almost comes off the bed.

"Easy," Giroux says when he pulls off, like he's not turning Sid inside out. "Easy."

He ducks his head again, puts his mouth around Sid's spent dick, and Sid jerks so hard the mattress shakes. Giroux is doing something with his tongue that's making Sid see stars, and he can't quite catch his breath. He doesn't know what he wants to say, only that he's mouthing at the air as Giroux swallows him down, and all that comes out is a strangled whimper.

He's getting hard, somehow, impossibly.

"Giroux," he grits out some immeasurable time later, and he's not even sure what he's asking for. He drags him closer, clamps his thighs around his head, and Giroux goes. At some point he starts tugging at Giroux's hair and swearing, cut off words morphing into one another, but he can't remember when.

Giroux doesn't let up.

By the time Sid is close to coming, he's just writhing on the sheets. The orgasm comes at him sideways, feeling like something he's never going to reach. He might just die here like this, he thinks, Giroux prying every piece of him open while he gasps and struggles. When it finally hits, Sid actually blacks out for a minute, everything going distant and unimportant.

When the familiar stucco ceiling comes back into focus, he just lies there. He must look like a mess—he's covered in sweat and come, there's lube on his thighs, and his dick's still wet with saliva. Giroux looks incredibly pleased with himself from where he's sitting back on his heels, still between Sid's thighs.

"You should give up control more often," he says, tying his robe closed. It's got to be uncomfortable by now—Sid knows there's lube all over the cuff of one sleeve, but he seems unconcerned.

"Well if you guys would win more," Sid says, pulling the comforter over himself. He's too exhausted to get up, even if this is enemy territory. Multiple orgasms always have a habit of knocking him out. Giroux makes a face at the blanket for some reason, but the world is going pleasantly wobbly and Sid doesn't pay it much mind.

  


**2: December 5, 2013**

Sid studies the idol in the winner's room while he waits for Thornton to show up. About half of the teams actually display their idol in the room, but Sid has always liked the Pens'. It's smooth granite, the body small enough to fit comfortably in his palm, and the figurine has three eyes and wobbly protrusions instead of arms.

He doesn't touch it, of course. There's no use courting disaster.

Sid hears the door open and turns around to find Thornton walking in, already taking off his robe. It's a little short on him, but not enough to be comical, and he gets on the bed without preamble and waits for Sid. This is why Sid likes veterans—not a lot of fuss, no drama, just right down to business.

As he settles next to him and coaxes Thornton's dick to hardness, Sid can almost imagine he feels the idol's gaze. He stares at it for a minute, then forces his attention back to what he's doing, feeling slightly guilty as he does. The gods expect some sort of sacrifice, but Sid just isn't feeling it tonight. His shoulder hurts where he took a hit in the second period, and he's got ice wrapped around it that he's going to have to take off soon. He's trying to jerk Thornton off, but the angle is making his wrist hurt, so he switches hands after a few minutes.

It doesn't help. 

It's silent in the room except for the slick sounds of lube and flesh, and Sid is tired. It was a win, but the moments on the ice where they could have been better keep playing out behind his eyes. When Sid finally stops jerking him off, Thornton is half-hard. He's shivering slightly in the chill of the room, and Sid sighs. He has to get this done, and then he can go home.

"You do it," he says, leaning back into the pillows with some small sense of relief. He can just let Thornton do the work, and surely he knows how to get himself off.

Thornton aims an unreadable look at Sid, but does as he's told. He wraps a hand around himself, and it's not long before he's hard. There's a deepening flush on his face that Sid can see even with his beard, and he can't help but linger on the sweat standing out on Thornton's throat.

"Yeah, like that," Sid says, voice hoarse as Thornton rubs a thumb over the head of his dick. "Slow down."

He does.

Thornton's got his eyes closed, a light furrow between his brow, but Sid is captivated by the way the muscles in his arm move as he keeps stroking himself. He's got beautiful hands, the veins standing out prominently, and Sid feels his mouth go dry. Suddenly, he doesn't feel so tired.

Sid shifts enough to get a hand on himself, just rubbing lightly without any real intent, and watches the show. Thornton plays with his balls and plucks a nipple when he tells him to, but for the most part Sid is captivated by the sight of the head of his dick disappearing and reappearing from the tight clench of his hand. When he comes, Sid touches his back just to feel the way he trembles, eyes closed tight.

Sid wonders who he's thinking of, if he's got someone at home, someone who doesn't mind this part of dating a hockey player. This could be part of his required number of sacrifices, but maybe he's here because he wants to be. Maybe he opted in to the program like Sid, who goes as tribute more often than the gods require as a way to curry favor.

He wonders if it matters either way. Wonders what Thornton will tell his maybe-girlfriend over the phone when he gets back to his hotel room. Wonders what it would be like to tell someone himself.

He wordlessly passes Thornton a cloth from the nightstand and watches him cleans himself up.

"It's always fucking freezing in here," Thornton says, tossing the cloth aside and rubbing at his arms. He pulls his robe off the floor and puts it on without waiting for Sid to say anything, then reaches over and starts jerking Sid off with the kind of perfunctory handjob the league has perfected.

They don't kiss. This isn't about romance.

Even with the show beforehand, Sid doesn't come quickly. His mind is more settled than it had been, though. He relaxes into Thornton's hands, lets him take care of him, and focuses on the nearness of his body, the heat coming off of him.

For you, he thinks to the idol, and then he's coming.

They don't speak as they head to the changing area, but it's a companionable silence. They shower next to each other, the last of Sid's high from the win swirling down the drain along with the water, and they exchange nods as Thornton leaves.

It's easy with guys like him, Sid thinks, watching stray water droplets run down the incongruously coral tile. They're both on the same page with what they need to do, and they try to make the sacrifice go as quickly as possible. Sid should be happy. And this is easy, right? He shouldn't be wondering if this is really what the gods want.

At it's core, the winner's room is about having power, but not too much power. It's about control, but also knowing that control isn't permanent. By this point in his life, Sid has it down to a science. Still, he can't help but wonder. There's a part of him that's never as alive as when he's acting as tribute or victor to a rival team, where he feels like he's really got something he can drag out of them or vice versa.

But that's not his concern. There's a lot Sid doesn't know—why he can feel the power of some idols but not others, how the priests determine whose turn it is to choose a tribute, why sex qualifies as a sacrifice—but figuring it out isn't up to him. The league pays him to play hockey, not think about religion.

Sid turns the shower off and listens to the echo of water bouncing off the tile, and it's a long time before he can make himself head out.

  


**3: October 25, 2014**

"Tavares really has some suction power," Nealer says, whistling at Sid exposed neck, and Sid presses his hand over the hickey. Nealer must be following the God Stats, tracking who's going as tribute after every loss. The stats are about as effective as plus-minus, as if how many times you go to the winner's room says anything about your conduct there, but some guys like to try and find patterns.

"Looking after anyone in particular?" Sid asks, changing the subject before Nealer can start thinking about how long ago Sid had been up for tribute and compare it to the freshness of the bruise.

"No," he says unconvincingly, and Sid raises an eyebrow. Nealer doesn't blush, but there's a flush rising up his chest.

Sid allows him get away with it since it means letting the subject drop, and surreptitiously thumbs the bruise Giroux left the last time they'd fucked. It had been outside of the winner's room, crammed in an unlocked supply closet in CONSOL. Giroux had sucked on his neck like a limpid while Sid jerked them both off fast and hard, and he'd gotten stuck cleaning up the mess when Giroux fucked off like an asshole.

Sid doesn't want to explain how that happened, how they'd switched to sex outside the influence of the hockey gods, or how he hates Giroux's stupid face but still wants to suck his cock.

Like he's read Sid's mind, Nealer taps on Sid's chin and grins. "Hey," he says. "You wanna blow me?"

Sid does.

He folds his robe beneath his knees because whoever designed the winner's room made it beautiful but not necessarily comfortable, at least if you're on the floor for an extended period of time. The terrycloth forms an uneven lump, but it's better than nothing. Maybe discomfort is supposed to be part of the sacrifice, but Sid doesn't think the gods are cruel, just demanding.

It's a little weird to be on this side of things, Sid thinks as he noses into the crease at Nealer's groin. As captain, Sid was the one who made sure that everyone knew how to treat tributes and how to regain some shred of control when they went to the room as sacrifices. Nealer had already known how the winner's room worked when he came to the Pens, but the thought still stands.

Sid realizes he's started blowing him on autopilot and shuffles forward to pick up his game. One of his knees slips off the padding the robe provides, but Sid's got one hand covering the part of Nealer's dick he can't fit in his mouth, and Nealer is tugging at Sid's hair hard enough to make his eyes water, and he doesn't bother readjusting it.

It feels safe here, Nealer's body curled around him, his thighs bracketing Sid's head. The weight of his dick in Sid's mouth is comforting, as is the familiar taste of latex. Sid thinks he could stay like this for a while, if that's what Nealer wanted. He could blow him slowly until all his control fails, but even as the thought crosses his mind his jaw begins to ache.

He could pull off, finish him off with his hand, but Sid plays to win. There has to be a sacrifice or else the gods aren't satisfied, and you don't get to the top if you don't follow the rules.

Sid redoubles his efforts, goes down far enough that the wiry hair at the base of Nealer's dick brushes his nose, and resists the urge to gag. He hums, and Nealer comes with a gasp, losing his rhythm and pushing forward in quick jerks.

He stays there for a minute, softening in Sid's mouth, and then he pulls back and ties off the condom.

"Good," he says, stroking Sid's hair, and Sid doesn't try to untangle how that word makes him feel. He moves his jaw back and forth a couple of times, then rests his forehead against Nealer's thigh like he's crouched in prayer and starts jerking off franticly. It doesn't take long before he's coming all over the floor, and he stays there with his eyes closed until Nealer taps him on the shoulder and offers him a hand up.

Sid takes it.

He always feels bad for making a mess in the winner's room, but he figures whoever cleans up after them is used to it. He's just glad that Nealer isn't one of the assholes who likes seeing Sid clean up his own mess by licking it up. His stomach turns at the memory of the last time that had happened, and he pushes it out of his mind with prejudice. It doesn't deserve to share any space with the current reality—Sid and Nealer sitting on the barely rumpled surface of the bed, shit-talking as their sweat dries.

"So, what's the latest I'm hearing about Geno and Ovechkin," Nealer asks, and then they're off about the league and Flower's daughter and whether the latest idol the Oilers have commissioned will be enough to stop their losing streak this year. By the time Nealer finishes off a story about one of his teammates locking himself out of his apartment and leaves with a wave, Sid feels settled in his own skin.

Since they'd lost at home, he heads back to the locker room to grab his bag and doesn't notice he's humming until he's standing in front of his cubby. His idol is looking down from the top shelf, and Sid taps his finger against his chest twice, then presses them to the top of the idol's head. The metal is cool in the room, the shine worn off from the years he's been carrying it with him, but its presence is comforting.

Then he turns around and almost has a heart attack.

"Jesus, fuck," he swears, clutching at his chest as Flower materializes out of the shadows. "What are you still doing here?"

"Easy," Flower says, ignoring the question. "How was breaking the rules?" He wiggles his eyebrows at him, looking ridiculous, and Sid huffs.

For the most part people stick somewhat to the hierarchy when choosing their tribute—captains with captains, A's with A's, first and second and third lines all together—but it isn't a steadfast rule or even a widely followed one, and Flower knows it. If Sid usually follows the hierarchy pretty closely, and if sometimes he feels itchy when people stray too far from it when they choose him as tribute, that's not Flower's problem.

"It was fine," Sid says, and Flower does him the courtesy of not pushing for details.

"You know," he says, "if you're interested in breaking more rules, when I was with Giroux—"

Sid cuts him off. "Don't tell me." His good mood is slipping away from him now—he's never liked hearing about what other people get up to, not unless it's something that will require retribution later. It's not that he believes hearing about other sacrifices will lessen his own somehow, but he doesn't want to chance it, either.

"Fine," Flower says, raising his hands in defeat. "But you're here late. Nealer wear you out? No," he says when Sid opens his mouth, "don't tell me. Just leaves more up to the imagination."

Sid puts his hand on the wood of his cubby and rests his forehead on top of it just for a minute, groaning as Flower laughs at him. For being his friend, Flower is kind of an asshole.

"Thanks," he says, as dry as he can manage.

"You love it," Flower replies, and Sid picks his head up and shakes it.

"Yeah," he says, but the word doesn't have anywhere near the sarcastic tone he was aiming for. "Yeah, I really do."

  


**4: February 16, 2015**

Sid locks eyes with the idol in the recess of the wall and prays, God, let this be over soon, god, please.

Dubinsky runs a finger across the cut on Sid's chest, and he closes his eyes, blocks out the Jacket's idol and the overly bright room. He can get through this, he tells himself. This is just another sacrifice, just another duty he needs to fulfill for the game and the ice. For everything he's spent his life working for.

Sid normally doesn't try to check out during these things, not even if it's just rote sex, but this is different. When Dubinsky first pulled out the knife, Sid hadn't been overly worried. He's had victors try scare tactics before. But now he's bleeding sluggishly across his body, and Dubinsky just keeps _going_. It'd be so much easier if he could disconnect his mind from his body, from the pain and the humiliation, from the current of fear running through him. If Dubinsky wants to really hurt him there's nothing Sid can do to protect himself. The cuts have been shallow so far, but that doesn't mean they're going to stay that way.

Dubinsky runs the flat of the knife against Sid's shoulder, and he flinches.

He closes his eyes, which doesn't help. He feels nauseous and can't anticipate where the next cut is going to come from, but this way he doesn't have to look at the idol. He's always done what the gods want, always gone willingly to the winner's room, always tried to treat his tributes well, and now…

Please, he thinks. Please.

There's a _thunk_.

Sid opens his eyes. The knife is sticking point-down out of wooden floor, a couple of inches away from Dubinsky's bare foot. The handle is still vibrating slightly, and they stare at it for a minute before Dubinsky turns back to Sid, his eyes wide.

"Well," he says, "I guess it's time for the fun part," and Sid resists the urge to fight. The door is right there, just across the room, but he can't get his muscles to unfreeze. He could make a break for it, but then what about the gods, what about the sacrifice, what about his _team_ —

Before he can figure out what to do, Dubinsky's there. He doesn't even bother taking off the glove he'd been wearing—like he was worried about touching Sid's blood even though he was the one doing the cutting—just starts jerking Sid off. His grip is too tight and not slick enough, but when Sid looks down there's blood all over his dick, smearing around as Dubinsky adjusts his grip.

Sid knows that he's not going to let up until Sid comes, but he thinks he's probably going to throw up before that happens.

He blacks out for a minute there, or maybe his mind just removes him from what's happening, because by the time he opens his eyes Dubinsky is wiping him down perfunctorily with a sheet. There's blood smeared across the white, and Sid can't help but spare a thought for the cleaning people who are going to have to deal with all the mess. It'll take buckets of bleach to turn the sheets back to their original color, but maybe they won't bother. Maybe they'll just toss it all. Maybe they'll burn it.

"You took it all so well," Dubinsky says, and Sid feels his gorge rise. He pushes away from him and staggers when he stands even though he didn't lose that much blood, hardly any at all. Dubinsky catches him by the arm.

"One more thing," he say, and then he's dragging Sid across the room to the idol. It's one of the wooden ones, smooth cherry carved into five snakes folded around each other, all facing outward.

Dubinsky lifts Sid's arm and smears the blood that's trickled down to his hand over the idol's heads before he can protest. Sid jerks away, but the damage is already done. The idol looks marred like this somehow, even though the blood doesn't stand out that much against the dark wood. He wants to wipe it off because this feels wrong, intrinsically wrong, in a way he can't describe. The gods demand a lot, but not this.

Dubinsky is watching him with some unreadable expression, and Sid turns back to the bed before he remembers the mess the covers are in. His robe is tangled up in there somewhere, but all Sid can see are the crimson smudges marring the white. It's not a lot of blood, not the worse he's been injured by a long shot, but it's different off the ice.

He reroutes towards the door without stopping to cover himself up. It's suddenly more important to get out of this room, with its bloody idol and the knife still lodged in the floor, than it is to not run into anyone in the hall while naked. If Dubinsky wants more from him, he doesn't say so, and the door closes with a resounding click behind Sid.

He ignores the shower in the changing room, wanting to get out of there and away from Dubinsky and the idol burned behind his eyelids as quickly as possible, and then time skips. He doesn't really remember the drive, but somehow he's made it to his hotel room. When Sid looks down he realizes he's put his clothes back on and tied his shoes, but it's all a blank. He feels cold, like there's something shivering under his skin that he can't get to stop. A couple of cuts have stuck to his clothes, and they pull with a dull pain every time he moves.

Sid sits on the bed, wishing he could go take a shower but unable to convince himself to stand. He should go find someone on the team, but he doesn't want anyone to see him like this, even more than he doesn't want to be alone. And anyways, he's fine. He's fine. He's—

He picks up the phone without thinking about it. It rings five times before someone answers.

"Hello?" Claude says, voice low and hoarse with sleep, and Sid closes his eyes against the tide of relief that washes over him with that one word. He can't even do the math for the time difference, just clutches the phone.

"Hello?" Claude says again, sounding slightly more awake, and Sid sucks in a breath for what feels like the first time since going to the winner's room. Reality is starting to intrude now, and he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know why he called at all. It's not like they're friends, not like they're anything more than begrudging fuckbuddies, but he can't bring himself to hang up.

There's a pause on the other end of the line. Then, "Crosby?"

"Yeah," Sid says too fast, and then just keeps talking. "Do you," he clears his throat, trying for normal. "Do you think idols can feel things?" There's an extended pause. "Claude?" he says when he doesn't answer, then pulls the phone away from his ear.

Claude's hung up on him.

The sudden weight of the room is crushing, and Sid stands up on shaking legs and trembles in the too-air conditioned room. He really should go find someone, he thinks, but the door seems an immense distance away, and he's not sure he's thinking right.

He's just taken a step away from the bed when the phone he's still got clutched in his hand starts vibrating, startling him.

"Hello?" he answers without checking who it is.

"I'm pretending you didn't call me at an ungodly time in the morning just to ask me about idols," Claude says. "And no, they can't feel. They're inanimate objects."

Sid closes his eyes against the relief that twists through him and drops him back to the bed, nearly missing the edge of the mattress. "Yeah, sure. Sorry," he says, still too fast.

The silence stretches for long enough that Claude asks, "You just call me up for some heavy breathing?" but he can't disguise the concern in his voice.

"Just, talk about something," Sid says, and the words are hard to get out, like his throat is closing up. If Claude thinks it's an odd request, he doesn't say so.

"Fine," Claude says, "but remember, you asked for it." He starts talking about something—the weather, how they're going to crush the Pens, his dog, Sid doesn't know what. His mind is still back in the winner's room, adrenaline crash making him shake, and the room is so cold. He hurts, and the idol lingers behind his eyes, painted in his own blood, cocooned in shadows.

The distraction helps, though. Claude's familiar accent is something for Sid to focus on while his heart rate comes down from whatever freak out he'd been having. He doesn't pay attention to what he's actually saying, just listens to the cadence and blocks out the rest of the world. Finally his hands stop shaking and he closes his eyes. It's been a long day.

Sid tunes in to a story about some rookie trying to buy vegetables at the store and cuts Claude off. "Do you think they can make things happen?" he says. "Idols, I mean." He already knows what Claude is going to say, but he has to hear it for himself.

Or maybe he doesn't know. There's a pause before Claude says, "Who was it," in a voice that's lost all of its humor.

"Who," Sid says, playing dumb, and Claude doesn't even dignify that with a response. "There—" Sid starts, trying to find the words for this, the room and the sacrifice and the idol. How to explain it to someone who doesn't even believe in the gods like Sid does, who thinks the winner's room is outdated and impractical and useless to the sport.

"Sid," Claude says, and Sid still isn't used to that, to being called by his first name by someone he hates, or at least used to. There's something huge rising in his chest, and he doesn't want to know what's going to happen if it makes its way out.

"I have to go," Sid says, and Claude's trying to say something, but Sid hangs up and turns his phone on silent. He sits on the too-large bed for a long minute, just holding the hunk of plastic in his hand, waiting for something, he doesn't know what. A sign, maybe. Something.

Then he stands and peels his clothes off, wincing at the newly formed scabs that get pulled off. He makes his way to the bathroom and turns the shower on lukewarm, feels the sting where it hits his skin, and thinks. Hockey is everything to him. He could have said no, could have gotten up and walked out of the room, but that's not the job of a tribute, right? He had a choice, he just chose not to fight.

Still, he thinks, gingerly scrubbing a hand across his chest, Claude's right to be concerned. He doesn't want Dubinsky to blindside anyone else, so he'll put him on the blacklist with the other players who took their sacrifices too far. He'll get a spotter next time, or… well. He'll make sure the next tribute has a spotter. That's his job, after all. To keep his team safe. To make sure the gods are satisfied. To sacrifice.

By the time he gets out of the shower, everything hits him all at once. He'll talk to Flower tomorrow, put Dubinsky on the blacklist, get the word out. But for now Sid leaves his towel on the floor, turns the covers down, and pulls out his phone. 

Claude had called him back but not left a message, and Sid stares at his contact information before pulling up his texts. Below Claude's last booty call a month ago, he sends _Thanks._ before he can start second guessing himself, then turns the phone back on silent and sets it on the nightstand.

Everything else can wait till morning.

  


**5: April 3, 2016**

There's already someone in the room when Sid enters, and he remembers this part. Rookies always get a spotter, regardless of whether they ask for one or not. It has something to do with setting them at ease, because even the gods aren't cruel enough to make them go it alone their first couple of times.

Sid has never voluntarily used one. He gets enough of the crybaby taunts as it is—he doesn't need anyone claiming that he can't take the heat off the ice.

He exchanges a nod with the spotter, her red robes making her stand out against the wall. Sid thinks all the winner's rooms are white to help the cleaners see what needs extra attention, but Claude's got some theory about symbolic purity that he's never been able to explain with a straight face.

Sid is drawn out of his musings by McDavid coming through the door. 

"It's an honor," McDavid says, and he's so _young_. Sid knows he must have been that young once, but it feels like ages ago, like the person he is now doesn't even share the same body as his past self.

"Likewise," Sid says, because what does he really say to that? "Blowjob okay?" McDavid doesn't really have a choice in this, but at least with this question he can redirect to a handjob if he wants.

McDavid just nods, and Sid scoots up the bed and spreads his legs to give McDavid room to work. He tries not to look over at the spotter. He knows some people like it, even get off on it, but Sid's never been one of them. It feels strange and a little invasive, and he hadn't even wanted his regulation spotter when he'd first entered the NHL.

Sid rolls the condom on himself, and McDavid wastes no time. He goes down on Sid like he's trying to win an award for it, his brow furrowed in concentration, hands petting Sid's thighs like they don't really know what to do.

"Watch the teeth," Sid hisses as McDavid scrapes him. It's not bad, but Sid expected something more. He hasn't been in the league for long, and he can't sign up for voluntary tribute duty until after his first season, but still.

McDavid seems to take that as a challenge. He glares up at Sid with eyes that are already starting to water, then tries to deepthroat him. He gags immediately and looks like he's going to try to fake his way through it, but Sid has no need for his dick to get bitten off because McDavid doesn't know what he's doing. He's already pulling him off as the spotter steps forward.

"Hey," Sid says. "Don't hurt yourself."

"It's fine," McDavid says, but he's coughing as he does, face bright red.

"Sure," Sid says. His erection is wilting, but the spotter has resumed her place back against the wall. Sid wonders what she thought was going to happen, if Sid was just going to keep him there chocking on his dick until he passed out or something. The idea makes him vaguely nauseous.

"We usually just fuck," McDavid says, face still red. "The other players I've been tribute for, I mean." The other two, he doesn't say. Sid knows the base number of times each player has to go as tribute depends on the roster and what the priests say, but rookies usually go three times their first year. And if McDavid follows the hockey gods as closely as Sid thinks he does, he's probably never had sex outside of the winner's room.

The thought makes him feel uncomfortable for some reason, even though he'd done the same thing.

"Did you want to do that instead?" Sid asks. It's not like he's opposed, but he'd thought it sounded like a lot of work, and he just wants to go back to the hotel and call Claude.

McDavid gives him a look, like Sid's not supposed to be asking that question. "No, I've got it."

Sid shrugs, feeling like there's something here that he's supposed to be doing, but he doesn't know what that would be. If McDavid wants to give him a blowjob instead of getting fucked, that's up to him. 

"Fine," he says. "I'll walk you through it." And say what you will about him, McDavid is a quick learner. It isn't long before Sid is coming, careful not to choke him again as he does. If he's not paying that much attention to McDavid when he does, well. That's something Sid will just keep to himself. 

After it's all over and McDavid and the spotter are gone, Sid loiters on the bench in the changing room, pecking out a text. He shouldn't give Claude this kind of ammo, but he wants to know if Claude waited until he hit the NHL to start having sex like Sid did, or if there was someone before. It doesn't matter, really, but somehow it's never come up.

Sid pauses in the middle of sending it, hit by a sudden wave of déjà vu, or maybe something else. When had Claude become this for him, someone to keep in mind, to save pieces of his day to tell later? It's not like Sid has forgotten the past year—they're definitely together. He just doesn't remember all the steps that led him here. Just as he doesn't remember being as young as McDavid, or how all that time compressed to turn him from Sid the Kid into Sidney Crosby, Stanley Cup champion, he doesn't remember all the small instances that combined to give him Claude.

There's a clatter in the other part of the room, the one where the robes are kept, and Sid looks up at the intrusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a cleaning woman says. She's got a cart full of supplies and a fresh pile of sheets stacked on the top, and she looks old enough to be Sid's grandmother. "I didn't realize anyone was still here."

Sid waves it off because he's the one lounging around when he should be driving back to the hotel. He's just glad he already showered and put his clothes back on. "No, it's not your fault. I was just lost in my own head."

"I'll just get out of your hair," the woman says, heading towards the winner's room. She's got liver spots on her hands, but they're capable and steady as she pushes the cart forward. Sid doesn't want to know everything she's seen, but he bets she could tell some stories.

"Hey," Sid says before she's out of the room. "Can you answer something for me? Do you wash the comforter every time?"

"Yes," she says, "especially because they're white." Then she smiles, and the years drop off her face. "But I used to work in chain hotels where they didn't. It depends on the team, so stay away from them if you aren't sure."

"Thank you," Sid says, slightly bemused. He guesses all of Claude's rants about not using the upper layer of bedding in winner's rooms make sense now.

The woman waves and wheels her cart into the corridor, and Sid sits there for another minute before he unlocks his phone and sends his original text. He'll tell Claude about the comforters in person—there's no way he's missing the look on his face.

  


**+1: February 25, 2017**

Claude turns the lights off when he comes in, and Sid cracks open an eye. There's ambient light coming through the frosted panes that face the hallway, but the room is still dim.

"You okay?" he asks, shifting over even though he doesn't really have to. The beds are always bigger than they have any reason to be, but it's more about the gesture itself.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Claude says. Sid feels the mattress dip under his weight, and then there's a soft thump as Claude's robe hit the ground, or maybe the comforter that Sid had pulled off the bed earlier.

Injured players are exempt from the tribute system, but Sid already knew that. That's not really what he's asking. Sid aims a skeptical look at him that Claude ignores in favor of arranging himself in Sid's personal space.

"Headache, "Claude finally says as the silence stretches. "Nothing serious. Look, can we just—" he gets a hand on Sid's soft cock, and Sid jumps. They're not always the most demonstrative people, but there's generally a little more foreplay before they just get down to it. Claude looks like this is about as appetizing as cleaning out the refrigerator.

"No," Sid says, and Claude sighs.

"Fine, but you're doing all the work," he says, rolling over and shuffling a pillow under his hips. He flaps a hand at the nightstand where the lube is, but Sid doesn't move. "Well?"

"No to everything," Sid says, and Claude looks baffled. Sid's stomach curls tight at the sight.

"You don't want to have sex? What about the gods?"

"You don't even believe in the gods," Sid says, like he has to remind him, "and you're clearly not in the mood."

Claude shrugs. "It's just a handjob, if you don't want to fuck," he says. Sid honestly can't believe they're having this conversation right now. "And what about your point streak?" Ever since he'd made the mistake of telling Claude he thought winner's room handjobs were part of the reason for his comeback last season, Claude hasn't been able to let it drop.

"I don't know if you've been paying attention," Sid says dryly, "but it hasn't been working out that well for me. You can give me a mediocre handjob in the morning."

Claude makes a face like Sid just insulted his mother and says, "My handjobs are never mediocre," but his eyelids are drooping, the indignant expression wilting on his face.

"Fine," Sid concedes, running the back of his hand up Claude's arm. "You can refresh my memory in the morning, okay?"

"I'm going to blow your mind," Claude grumps, dumping the pillow under his hips on the floor and stealing Sid's. "Mediocre my ass."

Sid's heart does something he can't quite figure out as Claude pulls him over so Sid is the big spoon. He's out like a light in no time, which Sid knew would happen, and soon enough he's snuffling slightly in sleep, arm heavy over Sid's own. Sid buries his nose in the shorn hair at the base of his neck and breathes.

In the still of the room, ready for what happens after this leap of faith, Sid waits. Time passes, but he doesn't really feel different, not unless you count the way his other arm starts tingling from where Claude's lying on it. There's nothing to indicate the gods are displeased, or that they're planning retribution for Sid not fulfilling his side of the bargain.

Maybe it's just a ruse, a sense of false security, he thinks. Maybe this all goes to shit and he gets a puck to the face the next time he steps on the ice, or none of his passes connect. Maybe the team gets the mumps again.

The thought of this rebounding on someone other than himself gives him pause. It's not like Claude couldn't have done it, or that this is something Sid should be risking his career over. Claude had offered, right? Sid could have gotten his due and given the gods a sacrifice without any trouble, but the thought sits wrong.

Sid wants Claude in the morning, tangled in the sheets with his hair a mess, bad breath and all. He wants him sleepy and rumpled, spitting mad and laughing so hard he spits out his drink. He just plain wants him, but not like this.

Maybe he's been listening to Claude for too long, or maybe this is some test from the gods and he's failing, but since his slow start at the beginning of last season Sid has been having some doubts. Just little ones, nothing he's told anyone about. Oh, he still believes in the gods and the idols, the need for sacrifices, but it no longer seems all consuming. Hockey is still important, but it's not everything.

The thought feels almost sacrilegious, but Sid can't quite bring himself to take it back.

He and Claude are a long ways off from where they started, the changes so minute as to be almost imperceptible. Whatever they used to be to each other, whoever they used to be, they aren't those people anymore. Sid isn't going to make Claude give him a handjob just because the gods want one, even if they are in the winner's room.

But since the gods are all about sacrifice, Sid thinks as Claude starts drooling on his arm, maybe it doesn't matter whose sacrifice it is. Maybe this break in routine—one's he's been cultivating for a long time—maybe that's enough of a sacrifice. The logic turns fuzzy somewhere, tribute and victor getting tumbled into each other, but Sid thinks it might be the thought that counts.

He has just enough presence of mind to consider how awkward this is going to be if the cleaning staff shows up before they're done with the room, and then even that thought gets lost to sleep, swallowed up by the dim of the room and the heat of Claude's body.

Whatever the future brings, it'll still be there waiting for them in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on consent issues: Tributes are not supposed to say no to whatever happens in the winner's room, which makes consent inherently dubious. As well, in the "February 16, 2015" section Sid goes to the winner's room as tribute, where he is cut with a knife and receives a handjob. Sid wants what is happening to him to stop and considers leaving the room, but believes he needs to stay for his team. The event is traumatic, but Sid sees it as a sacrifice rather than an assault. /end note on consent issues.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, I'm also looking for a beta for the next part in this series (which has approximately 80% less sex). If you're interested, come talk to me! I would love you forever.


End file.
